Antonio. Why not? You see I am.
Marquis. Yes, I see, and scorn you for it.
Countess. Why, Uncle, the tables are fairly turned upon you.
Antonio. Yes, Niece, and I'm much obliged to you, for your advice in the business—But you may depend upon it, I shall take care how I attempt to frighten one of your sex again. ( Going. )
Marquis. Come back, Sir, I insist upon your coming back, and recalling what you have said—I insist upon your begging me pardon for your impertinent insinuation.—
Antonio. What insinuation?—That I think you a female?—I am sure there is no offence meant in that—for, when I suppose you a woman, I suppose you what I like better than anything in the world; what I am never happy without; and what I even make myself poor, despised, and ridiculous, in the daily pursuit of.
Marquis. And pray, Sir, in what, do I appear like a woman?
Antonio. And pray, Sir, in what, does any of our modern coxcombs appear like a man? and yet they don't scruple to call themselves men.
Marquis. Then you will not recall your sentiments and beg my pardon?
Antonio. Beg your pardon?—No—Yes, yes—Put on your petticoats, and I'll fall at your feet as soon as you please.—